


Fearnought

by 51stCenturyFox, neifile7



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Other, clothing fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-29
Updated: 2009-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/neifile7/pseuds/neifile7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto isn’t the only one who <em>loves the coat.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearnought

**Author's Note:**

> Set post Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Co-written with neifile7. Huge thanks to beta readers [](http://copperbadge.livejournal.com/profile)[**copperbadge**](http://copperbadge.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://rm.livejournal.com/profile)[**rm**](http://rm.livejournal.com/) , and a shout-out to [](http://cruentum.livejournal.com/profile)[**cruentum**](http://cruentum.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://paragraphs.livejournal.com/profile)[**paragraphs**](http://paragraphs.livejournal.com/)  for moral support.

 

image created by [](http://copperbadge.livejournal.com/profile)[**copperbadge**](http://copperbadge.livejournal.com/)   [podfic recording](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=XZ4NQXPG) by [](http://filthgoblin.livejournal.com/profile)[**filthgoblin**](http://filthgoblin.livejournal.com/) 

 

Gwen hasn't planned this.

_A heavy morning rain, and then enough warmth for Jack to ditch the coat en route to a witness interview. There it sits, a ghostly passenger at the edge of her sightline, raising goosebumps and sweat, raising her hopes that he won't remember it when they return._

_He hasn't._

Gwen's hand trembles as she presses her comm control. She swallows, her mouth dry.

"Ianto? It’s my car. It won't start. Let Jack know I'm taking the SUV home tonight, okay?" Late night, quiet rift monitor: it's unlikely they'll need it. She hopes.

"Will do, Gwen. Although if you need a jump-start...?"

"No, think it's the engine. Don't trouble, it's fine. 'Night, Ianto."

Gwen clicks the remote to open the door, climbs in and checks the rear view mirror. Nothing. She pulls out of the lot near the Plass and turns neatly onto Lloyd George Avenue before she realises she's been holding her breath. She extends her hand to the seat beside her but curls her fingers back around the steering wheel at the crackle of Jack’s voice in her ear.

"Gwen?"

"Yes?" she answers, forcing a steady tone as her heart speeds up and her insides tumble.

"Sorry... have you left the Hub?"

"Yes. I told Ianto --"

"No problem. I was looking for your notes from earlier. Nothing major."

"Sure. Uh, draft's on my desk, might be under Tosh's printouts.” Gwen flattens her voice with an effort. “That all?"

“Gwen… wait.” Jack says and she pauses, catches herself mid-inhale.

“Never mind. It’s not important. Goodnight.”

She clicks off with a terse nod no one sees and turns onto her street, bringing the black SUV to a smooth stop in front of her building. No lights at the windows; Rhys is away, helping his parents pack and prepare to move house.

Still, she glances around before plucking the greatcoat from the passenger seat. She throws it over one arm and slips over to the darkened doorway.

She sidles into her flat and locks the door behind her, the tumbler sliding home with a satisfying _snick_. She folds the coat over the back of the sofa, kicks off her shoes and steps into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. Her eyes slide back to the coat and she nearly drops the glass -- why won't her hand stop shaking? She laughs aloud and the notes ring hollow and nervous to her own ear as she flattens her palms against the clammy cool of the countertop.

_Every day, she checks first thing when she arrives: Jack's coat still on its hook? She finds herself making excuses to pass by, brush it with her shoulder, inhale the scent. _

She crosses back to the coat and runs one tentative hand over the lapels. Abruptly, she hefts it over her arm again and strides down the hallway, into the spare bedroom with its new floral duvet, still creased from the shop shelf.

_A breakneck blur of blue on the hospital landing. His hard, sudden grip and shove down the corridor. "Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!"_

She lays the greatcoat carefully on the bed, flat and button-side up, assesses it for a moment, then reaches down quickly to straighten a sleeve. She steps back.

_...sprawled on his back on the scree of the waste-ground, and he is dead dead dead, so cold, the nap of the wool the only warm thing about him. She'd cradled and rocked him and wept, the fabric faintly stubbly under her clenched fingers. And she'd gently closed his eyes when they'd clouded, dragged him to the SUV, to the Hub. They'd stripped him for morgue clothes and Ianto had whisked the coat away.  
_  
A familiar twinge in her throat, and she raises both hands to her face; she blinks fast, shakes her head, pushes the memory down, down and away.

She hesitates, then drops her hands to her blouse buttons, slipping steadily down, one plastic disc at a time, eyes on the woolen outline on the bed. She drapes the blouse carefully over a chair, then takes off her bra and drops it behind her. As she unfastens the button on her jeans, she feels the flush rising, and by the time she kicks free of the binding denim and drops the jeans into a wad, her palms have gone slick.

Gwen kneels at the end of the bed, pressing her cheek to the coat's silky interior. She stretches her bare forearms slowly inside the garment and leans forward to slide the full length of her body against the fabric.

_The tinny snippets of song and echo of the clarinet. The dance hall door swings open and there they are and he crushes her to him and it's fine now, fine._

"Oh. Oh God," she murmurs, very quietly. She rolls onto her side and curls up into the garment’s roomy interior, pulling one side closed around her, dull smooth satin to naked flesh.

It’s the scent, first (always), that plucks up her heartbeat and shortens her breath: musk and nutmeg and sandalwood, with an unexpected tang of gunpowder and grease. _John smelled like that, too_. She hitches a little and luxuriates in the sleek blue lining, cool skin against her skin. The coat doesn’t mould itself to her body; it keeps its shape. His shape._ Leaning into his shoulders on the docks, his arm around her and face pressed to her hair._ She slips her hands into the sleeves, much too long, made for firm biceps and enormous, shapely hands. _Danger and safety, all at once._

She rolls her hips, seeking friction, feeling the damp swell of her folds, the ache in the mons._ Looking into the wreckage in their eyes after Jack has inexplicably gone. Saying “We can do this,” and seeing the agreement, the submission. _She flips to her stomach, rubbing with intent now, the sharp nub of her clit finding, oh, that’s it, that spot. _The rush, the sheer thrill of competence when they cornered the Hoix. _The lining no longer cool, warm and wet now, like a tongue. _Ianto silently pouring them two tots, so withdrawn that she asks if he’s all right. The sudden savour of whiskey and pain when he blurts, “I miss his coat.”_

Gwen missed it, too.

And now the reel behind her eyes keeps unspooling and she doesn’t want to go there but she can’t stop. She parts her legs, thighs clenching, she’s so wet, _and they are finally alone, just a stolen moment in the half-dark corridor. Jack running his hand down her arm, finding the ring. The circling of his thumb, the awkward press of his lips._

Panting now. _He slides the coat off Jack's shoulders, hangs it precisely, stroking out the creases_. She pulls out of one sleeve, grabs it and runs it hard across her nipples, soft and rough and so good. _The way they looked at each other in the hotel, after John left. Jack shy and hungry and Ianto predatory, circling, ready to mark his territory._ Flushing in every cell of her skin, swelling, _she wants to see, to know,_ Jack’s smell mingling with her most animal scent,_ tangle of hard limbs and cocks, harsh teeth and bruising hands_, oh God, this surge, time to do some marking of her own –

She arches her spine and comes -- oh Jesus. Comes _apart,_ hard and cascading, and it's _everywhere._

Shock-hollow, hoarse, legs trembling, she rolls off to one side and stares at the faint imprint of her body, the tattoo of droplets across the satin. Never meant it to go that far. Didn't know she could, and it feels like a desecration, almost -- shamefully wrong but also _thrilling._

Outside, as the night cools the air, a light and steady rain begins to fall.

 

The shrill of her mobile jolts her heart-rate again, and she lifts her head, fumbles a moment before peering at the display.

"Hey, Gwen," Jack says, breezy as usual. "Don't suppose you noticed if I left my coat in the SUV?"

"Yes," Gwen answers too quickly, automatically reaching to trace a fingertip along the shoulder stripes. "I brought it inside, actually. Didn't want to leave it overnight...what if someone stole it? The car."

"That would be _quite_ the loss," and fuck, why do Jack's simplest phrases sound like indecent proposals?

"Yes. Yes, it would." Gwen swallows a too-audible breath. She plucks a speck of lint from the collar.

"You staying up for a bit? I might swing by, pick it up."

"No! No, listen, Jack, it's a bit...splashed. You know, from that downpour this morning. Look, I'll just drop it at the cleaners on my way in tomorrow, 'kay?"

A beat, then Jack's most innuendo-laced tone: "Why, Gwen Cooper. You miss me so much that you want to cuddle up to my coat for a night?"

Gwen's mouth has dried again, and she pauses far too long before croaking, "Yeah. Right." Better take the offensive, fast. "Actually, I'm holding it hostage so you don't run off again, you bastard."

It's Jack's turn for a long pause, and his voice finally comes, quiet and even. "I think you're safe there, Gwen. But hang on to it for tonight if it makes you any surer. I know you'll take good care of it."

"Right, will do."

"Knew I could count on you." Another beat, and now she can hear him breathe in, out. "'Night, Gwen."

"'Night, Jack."

Gwen exhales as she pushes end call, and drags one finger over the stained lining. "Cleaners," she says aloud, and mentally adds, retcon the coat. Maybe not enough to cheat Jack's sixth sense. But she'll deal with that, if and when.

And...well, in for a penny, and she has all night. She eases herself back along the coat's length and settles, secures herself in the generous folds.

Enough to have tried it on for size, she decides.

She starts to drift, the tinge of gunpowder faintly soothing. Under the adrenaline, anger, and longing, there's a whiff of peace somewhere.  
 


End file.
